


On Your Knees

by WeeWinchesterBeastie



Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Angst, Dual POVs, Dubious Consent, Knife Play, M/M, Post-Captain America: The Winter Soldier, Smut, and happy fluff at the end, metal hand, more smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-22
Updated: 2014-06-22
Packaged: 2018-02-05 19:25:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,314
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1829479
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WeeWinchesterBeastie/pseuds/WeeWinchesterBeastie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Is anyone really surprised to find out that Steve likes it rough?</p><p> </p><p>Inspired by Stereowire's amazing art.</p><p>http://stereowire.tumblr.com/post/85593082988/stereowire-and-maybe-im-too-blind-to-see-the</p>
            </blockquote>





	On Your Knees

When I get home I know it’s going to be a rough night for Bucky.

I have an instinct for this lately. I see the stiff set of his shoulders, how tense the cords at his neck are, and I know these are the signs of the storm. He can’t stop fidgeting with his right hand, tensing it up, then shaking it out again. It’s like his hand wants to be a fist, but he keeps trying to fight it.

He won’t sleep well tonight. And that means neither will I.

At night I watch broken words spill from Bucky’s lips, his body tensing and sweating beneath the sheets. Sometimes I wake him—let him come to with a cry—and then he’ll push up from the bed like a wounded beast, stalking back and forth in the moonlight that spills beside our bed, or he’ll just dissolve right before my eyes, tears leaking like silent rivers down his cheeks, his whole body still and broken. He won’t let me touch him, won’t let me offer comfort. He snarls that he doesn’t deserve it—he’s alive to feel these things and that’s more than any of his victims got.

Sometimes I get a glimpse of the Winter Soldier.

It’s only happened a few times, right when Bucky first got back.

That was when we were still in separate beds, things unsaid, kept apart by truths we weren’t ready to look in the eye yet. I heard Bucky cry out in his sleep, and I ran into his room and tried to wake him. I found myself pinned to the bed by my throat, cold metal digging into my skin, and the empty eyes of an assassin staring down at me. I kept very still and said Bucky’s name, just soft, and then he came back to me. That person that was _Bucky_ swam back up into those pale blue depths, blinking and lost.

That time he cried great heaving sobs, and he let me wrap my arms around him, let me cover him in kisses and soft words, and when he fell asleep again he was curled into my chest, his arms locked around my waist.

We haven’t slept in separate beds since.

“Hey Buck,” I say, and he looks at me a little hesitant. He’s got his hair pulled back in a messy ponytail and I want to step in close to him, slide my lips over those little fallen strands, breathe in the smell of his skin. But I can tell he needs his space right now, so I just smile and start putting the groceries away. Bucky hovers for a moment, then comes in for a bag of dried goods that he takes back to the furthest cupboard he can find.

Bucky holds himself back a lot, like he’s afraid if I get too close he’ll lose control, do something he can’t take back. I wish I could make him understand that he doesn’t need to hide. This self-imposed distance cuts deeper than any wound he might inflict in a moment when he’s not himself. I was never afraid of much—even when I probably should have been—and now I’m Captain America and the only thing that really scares me is that Bucky might never make his way though this, might slip through my fingers while he’s right here in front of me.

“I got that brioche from the bakery you like,” I say. “It’ll be good for breakfast tomorrow.”

“Thanks,” he says softly, straightening up and absently tucking a stray tuft of hair behind his ear.

“You eaten supper yet?” I ask.

“Ah…”

The word hangs there for a while between us, and I can see the gears turning in his head, the war of thoughts that he thinks he can’t say out loud, fears he thinks he can’t give voice to.

“I’m not really that hungry,” he says finally, looking down at his boots. “Think I’m just gonna hit the sack.”

“Okay,” I say, nodding. I don’t want him to see my disappointment, don’t want to give him another burden. But it’s been weeks since he gave me his easy grin, since he hooked his arm around my neck (even though he’s not really the right height for it anymore) and knocked us together. Weeks since he pushed me up against the wall and fucked me till my knees buckled and I was calling his name like a curse or a prayer and I wasn’t sure which.

I never knew I could want someone like that, want to lose myself so completely in the mystery of two people pushing each other’s bodies to the limit, playing them like an instrument or fucking them like an animal and everything in between. It’s new and it’s different for me, and he’s my best friend and now my best guy and damn if I don’t just want to stride into that room and grab him and kiss him, let him take me over, throw me against things, press his need into my body and leave marks on my skin.

Of course, those marks don’t last very long.

But I like it when he puts them there.

I hear the bedroom door close quietly and I put the rest of the groceries in the fridge. I’m not really hungry anymore either now, but I can’t just follow him in there when he clearly needs space. So I grab my sketchbook and head back out for the café down the corner.

I tell myself we’ll get through this.

*          *          *

I hear the apartment door close and my chest gets a little colder. I swear to god I can still feel that damn cooler, still feel what it was to be alive but not awake, to be a monster not a man.

I want so much from Steve and it scares the hell out of me. There’s too much inside me—it’ll break open and beat him down. I’ll break this thing between us before it’s even had a chance to breathe. I’ll snap its neck in a moment of _not me_ and then I’ll have nothing left.

Nothing but me and the ice in my chest.

I told Steve I was going to bed but that was about as smart as escaping a light punishment by volunteering for a torture session. It’s the nightmares that truly fuck with my head, and now I’m sitting in bed alone, just waiting for them to come for me.

Like I used to sit in that damn chair and wait for them to fry my skull.

Why didn’t I fight back? Why don’t I fight back now?

I’ve lost myself and I don’t know how to fight for _me_ anymore. _They_ gave me the targets, _they_ gave me a reason to breathe. And now no one’s telling me what to do anymore and I’m scared what’ll come out of me if I start choosing _how_ I’m going to fight back.

The last time I let myself go, stopped keeping every thought and instinct on lockdown, I grabbed Steve and fucked him five ways from Sunday. And he didn’t stop me.

He could have, but he didn’t.

He didn’t tell the beast in me to back off, didn’t calm that raging fire taking over my chest. He let it take him instead, made these sounds that made the beast in me burn hotter. I stopped trying to control it and just let the thing come out and do what it wanted. I was buried in him, so hot, so good, just riding the fire taking over my body, giving me orders that my hands and my mouth and my cock carried out without hesitation.

No space between the instinct and the action.

There wasn’t that blank _nothing_ in my center in those moments, no empty space where they’d put those damn orders. No, there was just fire and want and _fuck baby, you like that, you like my cock in you, you like it_ as I slammed into him and held his arms hard enough to leave bruises, and he groaned and said _yeah, yeah, Buck, yeah_ , and then he couldn’t say words anymore, was just gasping under my thrusts and I didn’t know if it was pleasure or pain and I lost the piece of me that thought to care.

I came inside him with my teeth clamped on his shoulder and then I couldn’t stand anymore, just stumbled back and fell against the bed. And Steve collapsed to his knees, the mark of my teeth on his skin, the imprint of my fingers still on his arms, and he sagged forward, his head on the floor like I’d killed him. And when he finally looked up at me there was this thing in his eyes that scared the shit out of me.

Like I’d broken him open, found this Steve I’d never really met before.

Maybe saw glimpses of, so long ago when he was just 90 pounds of righteous, masochistic, dumbass punk, picking fights with assholes who needed to be taught a lesson, but would never learn. Not from a kid they could clobber with one punch. And they were too stupid to realize that when he wobbled back to his feet, refusing to back down, they were in the presence of goddamn greatness. _Stupid_ greatness, but greatness nonetheless. The sort of spirit that won’t compromise, won’t bend its neck.

Even if it’s gonna die for those principles.

 _I_ was the one who had to pull him back, save that dumbass punk from himself.

But how the hell do I save him from me?

He’s so willing to just give himself over to the beast that comes out of me. Steve Rogers—the man who wouldn’t bend, wouldn’t stop fighting—lets it all go and lets me do whatever I want to him.

I don’t know how to deal with that.

*          *          *

When I get back to the apartment everything is dark and quiet.

I leave my sketchbook on the table and take a carful look inside the bedroom. Bucky’s asleep, sprawled out on his back, his hair loose and scattered across the pillow like a dark halo. His breathing’s fairly regular and I hope that maybe I was wrong. Maybe he’ll sleep straight through tonight.

Maybe I won’t have to watch him fight monsters I can’t kill for him.

He thinks he was the monster, but he’s so wrong. The monsters are the ones who took away his control, unmade him, then sent the broken pieces out into the world to do their dirty work.

I strip down quietly and slip beneath the covers. His breathing speeds up and his metal fist clenches.

That faint hope slips away. The nightmares have come and now we both have to ride it out. I want to reach out and stroke the line of his cheek, try and soothe this awful thing he has to endure, but it’s early yet. If I give him some time he may pass through it. If I wake him now he’ll be pacing all night, and every day it seems the dark circles under his eyes get deeper. This thing is eating him alive and I don’t know how to stop it.

“It’s okay, Buck,” I whisper.

He explodes up and his fist catches me in the face before I even see it coming. His metal hand grabs me by the hair and then he’s torn me out of the bed, shoved me forward and I’m sprawled on the floor.

He’s still dressed in his dark jeans, and he comes towards me, assassin eyes narrowing, right hand reaching to his back pocket where I know he keeps his blade.

*          *          *

The mission is to take out a traitor, but first my orders are to make an example of him, to carve the symbol of our might and power into his flesh so no one else dares to oppose.

The target doesn’t try to run, just rises very slowly, his hands out, eyes soft.

Memories flash and I don’t know where I am. I hear voices, feel a rush of images—a smile that means home, a voice that means everything.

Ice cracks and the images go cold. Target acquired.

“On your knees,” I say, pointing my blade.

The target obeys, clear eyes never leaving mine. I grab him by the hair, but I can’t feel anything. Metal doesn’t feel heat or blood or broken skin.

I press the steel blade to his neck.

He’s still looking up at me.

Ice cracks again and that face I’ve always known and loved is looking up at me, lips parted, naked chest rising and falling. I can’t remember his name but I know that I want him.

I’ve always wanted him.

But I’m not supposed to. A feeling like panic claws at my chest and I remember this awful sensation I used to feel around him, like I was drowning in feelings I wasn’t supposed to have, things I wasn’t supposed to want. But he’s looking up at me with this expression that says I can have anything I want from him.

I’m hard and throbbing and I know just what I want—I’ve only got to take it. Take it and drown in it, never fight it again.

*          *          *

I’m on my knees looking up at him and I see the moment the soldier falters, see the moment the ghost of Bucky swims up behind his eyes. But it’s not the Bucky who lives with me most days, the one who paces back and forth between careful distance and desperate, violent closeness. It’s just _him,_ dark and hungry and heavy-lidded, his tongue flashing out over his lips for an instant. He’s hard—I can see the outline of him pressed against his jeans and that sight does something to me. My cock twitches to life against my boxers, straining against the tight fabric. It’s an ache that just makes me want more, want _everything_ , and I just want Bucky to give it to me. There’s cold metal at my neck and cold metal at my scalp and _my_ _god_ I’ll be damned if it’s not making me want him more.

 _I never knew this about myself,_ I think as he shoves my head down hard, the knife leaving my neck, and then his metal hand is braced on my shoulder and bright fire is tracing the skin at my back as his blade cuts a design on my flesh. My cock gets so hard I’m not sure where pain ends and pleasure begins and I gasp his name, trying to understand why this feels like the very thing I need most.

He drags my head up again and the blade returns to my throat. I can’t see Bucky or the Winter Soldier in his eyes anymore, just _want_ and _hunger_ so intense I groan and lean towards him without even knowing what I’m trying to do. The knife blade presses hard against my throat and he growls at me, this wonderful, _animal_ sound that makes my cock twitch and I press my hand over it, trying to relieve the ache.

But it’s an ache that can only be satisfied with him.

He lets go of my head and rips his fly open with that beautiful hand. His hard length jumps free and I don’t know if he grabs my head first or if I push my head forward but the next moment I’m swallowing his cock whole, smooth and hard and hot on my tongue, deepthroating him till tears spring up in my eyes. He’s still holding me by the hair, and his other hand is fisted around the knife handle and pressed trembling against the side of my head. I can feel his whole body shaking as I dig my hands into his ass, grabbing at the fabric, pulling and pushing him, fucking my face with his body.

He’s trembling so hard I know he’s going to come any moment, and I’m so hard, so desperate for him. There’s no space between us, just this hot need that no one else on this earth brings out of me.

A strangled sound comes out of him, but it’s not the sound that makes my lips curve and my muscles ache.

I look up at him, feeling like I’m drugged. I know this is bad—this sound doesn’t mean anything good—but I’m still so hungry with how much I want from him. He’s staring down at me, his eyes wide with horror, and he takes a drunken step backward. My mouth feels so empty without him. I just want him back.

“Steve?” he whispers, his face crumpling.

*          *          *

Steve’s on his knees in front of me, his hair spiked and mussed with blood, his eyes sex-drunk and his lips open and swollen. Sweat picks out every line of his naked chest and _Jesus fuck_ his cock is so hard I’m sure it’s about to split his boxer-briefs in half.

“It’s okay, Buck,” he whispers, reaching up for me.

I’ve got a knife in my hand.

And it’s dark with blood.

I reach out for him, and who would have thought that metal could tremble? But I swear it does. My whole body is trembling and I’m reaching for him so carefully, pressing his shoulder down just a bit and then I see it—the star carved on his back, thin lines of blood dripping down—and ice cracks and my head reels and the mission, the nightmare, comes out at me with claws unleashed.

I cry something without words and back away from him, and then I see his face flash with something painful, as though nothing I’d done so far had caused him any pain, but now—this reaction I’m having— _that’s_ what’s making him look like someone just drove a blade through his gut.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers, tears running from his eyes. “It’s okay Buck, I’m okay.” He’s still on his knees but he reaches out for me again and I can’t move, can only stare down at him with my breath shaking in my ears.

“Why would you let me do that?” I say finally. He could have stopped me. He’s better than I am. He could have killed me in that fight on the Shield helicarrier—we both know it. He beat me then and he could have stopped me now and he _didn’t_.

Why didn’t he?

He stares up at me, and his face flashes with something I almost never see—fear. I realize he’s afraid to say this to me. Afraid of what I’ll think of him. I’m standing here with his blood on my knife and the feel of his mouth still on my cock and he’s afraid of what _I’ll_ think of him?

“’Cause I liked it,” he says so softly, unable to take his eyes away from mine.

I laugh then—more out of shock than anything—but it’s the wrong move because he looks down quickly, shame and hurt twisting his features for an instant, but then he looks back at me, and he’s got that look in his eyes now, the one I _do_ recognize all too well, that look he gets when he’s not gonna back down.

“I like it. I like _you_ , Buck. _All_ of you.”

He’s looking at me like I’m the whole world and I don’t know if I can handle it.

“You’re in control now, Buck. They can’t get you anymore. You don’t have to be afraid.”

“It’s you who should be afraid,” I say, something trembling in the back of my throat. I slide my hand through the top strands of his hair, see the blood where those metal fingers dug deep into his scalp. His pupils get darker and he leans into my hand. I watch the blood slip over the silver metal, paint it in a thin sheen of red. My cock is hard again but it shouldn’t be. I shouldn’t like the feel of Steve on his knees, his blood on my hand. I shouldn’t like the way his eyes are so dark, the way his knees splay on the floor, open wide, his cock straining at his white boxers. The way he looks so _pliable_ , like I could do any goddamn thing I want—

“You’re not gonna break this thing,” he says. His voice is low and steady, but he’s giving me those _fuck me_ eyes that stared back at me two weeks ago. He runs his palm over his cock and bites his lip, tipping his jaw back a little further like an invitation. “You can make me bleed, but that’s never gonna break us. ‘Till the end of the line, remember?”

“You like this,” I say slowly, kneading metal fingers across his scalp, letting them scrape over the little raw patches of red.

He lets out this throaty groan and his cock jumps, and that’s all I can take. I grab him by the throat and pull him up and his hands grasp at my ribs and then at my cock, but I shove him hard and he falls back against the bed with a little broken breath. I press him to the mattress with my metal hand and lean over him, then kiss him hard and long, sucking and biting at his lips, delving my tongue inside until he's gasping for breath. I scrape my teeth over his tongue and stand up.

“Stay,” I order, my voice so low it’s almost inaudible.

The knife lays in the shaft of moonlight that spills on our floor, the blade still rimmed with his blood. I pick it up slowly, and Steve’s chest hitches, his breath going double time. This little almost-smirk tugs at the edge of his lips, like the one he sometimes got when he was losing a fight so bad, but just wouldn’t stand down, like his simple refusal to die was his final _fuck you_ to whatever prick was beating the shit out of him.

“You crazy fuck,” I whisper. “You really do get off on this.” I let the edge of the knife just rest on the amazing curve of his chest, and he huffs that breathy almost-grin at me again. I drag the knife edge just gently down the center of his chest, not cutting him, just teasing, down, down, over the line of his stomach, down to that soft trail of hair that just creeps past his waistband. His breath catches and he fists his hands in the covers, watching me the whole time.

One quick flip and I’ve got the knife turned the other way. I cut his underwear in half with a fast, sharp jerk and his breath hitches again, fingers clenching in the sheets. I press the flat of the knife against the head of his cock and he moans. His eyes flutter closed and that’s all the slow warm up I can take. I’ve got a knife to his swollen cock and he’s just closed his eyes like it’s the best blowjob he ever got.

I need to fuck this man so badly I might die if I don’t do it _right_ now.

I toss the knife to the floor and strain forward for the nightstand drawer. Steve opens his eyes and nods, breathless, as I squeeze lube over my fingers. But then I see his eyes flicker and realize it was a flash of disappointment.

I freeze.

I hold up my left hand, and it glints steel-bright. “You want this?” I ask, my mouth very dry.

“Yes,” he whispers.

I slick the lube over my metal fingers, kneeling between his legs, inching closer. My best friend, my blood brother, my _everything_ looks back at me with eyes made of filthy, depraved, _fuckable_ things, and I slide one metal finger up to the knuckle in his ass and he moans, _“fuuuuuck,”_ his knees and thighs quivering, stomach muscles tensing so goddamn gorgeous. I slide the finger the rest of the way in, then back out again. I add a second and his head drops back against the pillow, his chin tipping up, neck tight and sweat-slicked and it just makes me wanna make him moan even louder, so I scissor my fingers and crook them inside him and he cries out, his hips bucking up. And then I’ve really gotta start metal-finger fucking him because he looks so fucking filthy _pretty_ spread out for me like this.

He looks at me with those sex-drunk eyes and I realize I could get him to do _anything_ right now. I could tell him we’re taking this up on the roof of the apartment building and he’d just nod and moan. I could tell him he’s gonna blow me in the alley where _anyone_ could see and he’d jump up and drag me down to the street.

I give him a third finger and there’s really no need for me to start stroking my own cock, because it’s already rock hard and ready for him, but I like the feel of my hands on myself while I watch this gorgeous slut writhe under my hand.

“Fuck me, you’re beautiful,” I tell him, speeding up the rhythm of my hand. I feel my lips curve around a smile then, because I can tell I own his pretty ass and he’s pretty much lost the power of intelligent speech at this point.

I pull all three fingers out abruptly and he gasps, but then I grab his left leg and fold it up tight, shoving my thigh underneath his, and I press the head of my cock against that hole that I’ve finger-fucked so wet and open and I just _slide_ right into him. His leg shakes against my thigh, and his other leg strains like he’s trying to get a foothold in the sheets.

I lean forward over him, let my right hand press hard over his stomach, his chest, up his neck, and then I clamp down hard over his jaw. He’s so hot and slick around my cock and my head falls forward into the crook of his shoulder and that beast in me is on fire, thrusting hard and up and deep, and I’m grunting these sounds that make me wonder if I’m a man or an animal but I don’t fucking _care_ because Steve’s digging his nails into my back and I know there’s going to be marks there when the sun comes up tomorrow, and I fuck him harder because I _like_ it, and I like _him_ —like this twisted, trusting, _debauched_ Greek god that’s writhing under my cock like all he wants out of life is just to get fucked.

And I can do that.

I can fuck this man for the rest of my life and nothing terrible is going to happen. I can let the thing inside me off the leash and watch it turn mild mannered, _yes ma’am_ , clean cut, symbol of the patriotic union _Captain America_ into my own personal gorgeous cock slut.

“You’re mine,” I whisper against his ear, and he nods, his fingers clutching harder at my back.

“Yeah, Buck,” he gasps. “I’m yours, baby. Yours.”

I arch up and slow my rhythm, pulling back just halfway, then pushing back in again. I can tell I’ve hit the right spot on him, because he starts clenching like a goddamn vise around my cock and his hands go slack on my back and then he just lets them fall back at either side of his face, and he makes this sound, not very loud, but sort of strangled and high, and I feel warm sticky drops hit my chest, and then I’m coming too and I grab the back of his head, arching up for a moment, then falling towards him, braced on metal, anchored with skin, and I stifle my own cry against his forehead. His hands go up and cup my shoulders, the back of my neck, and then I collapse onto his chest, totally spent.

*          *          *

“Ohhh,” I groan, kissing the top of his head, then slapping his ribs. “Get out,” I say, and he starts cracking up on top of me, and then I start laughing too and he slips out of me and _fuck_ it burns, but it was good too. So damn good.

“Have you always been this debauched?” he asks me, rolling onto his side, his tongue working the side of his mouth, his eyes heavy-lidded and bratty.

“Just had to catch up to you,” I say.

He nods his _yeah, you’re really funny, punk_ nod and leans his head against my shoulder. Then he starts cackling again, his whole body shaking this time like he’s having some kind of fit.

“What?” I ask, not sure whether to laugh with him or be slightly put out.

“Aw man, I should have known,” he says looking up at me, shaking his head, tears of laughter running down his cheeks. “You always did seem to like getting beat up an awful lot.”

I yank the pillow out from under his head and smack him with it, then struggle up from the bed with difficulty. He’s still giggling like an idiot as I make my way to the bathroom on legs that don’t work right yet.

“Help,” he calls out in his spoiled brat voice, and I pitch a damp washcloth his way across the hall. It lands on the floor beside the bed and he groans. I clean myself up with a stupid grin on my face and realize that I’m hungry now. Bucky apparently reads my mind because he uses his bratty voice again and calls out, “I want brioche.”

I grin all the way to the kitchen, my legs almost fully recovered now. I grab the brioche and a hunk of excellent cheese and shove a bottle of wine under my arm, then head back to the bedroom.

Bucky’s lounging against the headboard, his limbs splayed out like a languid, cocky god.

“Well done, house boy,” he says with a quick pout of those ridiculous lips, so I hold the food out of his reach for a few moments until he slides his hands up my ribs and says “please, baby.” I sit and he takes the brioche, breaking off a piece and stuffing it in his face. “I’m so hungry,” he says. I pass him the bottle of wine and he takes a deep swig. “We’re all class in this joint,” he says, passing it back to me.

“Yes, we are,” I agree as he starts in on the cheese like he’s a wild dog that might never get fed again. “Sharing,” I say mildly, and he nods, but I let him eat most of the brioche because I love the way his lips curve when he’s eating something he finds really delicious.

I sip wine from the bottle and eat small bites of cheese and bread, and I soak up the sight of Bucky, _my Bucky_ , home at last.

I take the wrappers back to the kitchen and scarf some pasta salad in front of the open fridge. “You want anything else, Buck?” I call.

There’s only quiet in response.

I finish the last few bites and head back to the bedroom, and Bucky’s sprawled out on his back like he was when I came home tonight, but now he’s breathing deep and even, and there’s this lazy smile on his lips. I slip down into the covers next to him and he turns toward me, already half asleep, but he pulls me in close and lays his head on my shoulder.

“Night,” he breathes.

“Night, Buck,” I say against the dark strands of his hair.

Yeah. Now he’s home.


End file.
